


Claustrophobia

by undernightlight



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Claustrophobia, Comfort, M/M, Romantic or platonic, can be read either way
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-14
Updated: 2021-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-23 00:00:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30046797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/undernightlight/pseuds/undernightlight
Summary: Things didn’t go to plan, but that’s okay, things often don’t. When Harold and John are forced into close quarters to avoid discovery, Harold not only has to contend with his own anxieties, but John’s, as they’re forced to confront his claustrophobia head on.
Relationships: Harold Finch & John Reese, Harold Finch/John Reese
Comments: 2
Kudos: 24





	Claustrophobia

**Author's Note:**

> writing poi for the first time since 2017 (whoo? there will probably never be any more)

It felt like their cover had been blown far too easily, but perhaps it had been a poor job on his part instead of any hypervigilance on theirs. A well-respected but paranoid intelligent billionaire and his personal security escort. It really shouldn’t have been blown, since half of the time that cover was the trust, Harold thought, but their names were not the names on the ID cards.

The US government does not take kindly to their security being breached, something he already knew, but was made immensely more frustrating since they had not managed to establish contact with their number. Instead of tracking down the young researcher, victim or perpetrator, they were forced to slowly go from floor to floor and avoid detection. They had been doing a rather good job at it - much of that because of Root, patching in - despite him slowing the pace, but things were still getting tricky.

“Wait,” Root said. John stopped, and Harold a step after, closing the slowly growing gap between them. “People are coming, but they’re not sweeping. Find somewhere to hide.”

The stretch of corridor they were on was limited in its door selection, but they were close to one, so that seemed the obvious choice, and so inside they shuffled, closing the door behind them. The room in question was a small storage closet, big enough for the two of them but only just, leaving a few inches between them, and only slightly deeper than John was broad. It was tight, but limited options called for it.

Despite what Root had said, it was surprisingly quiet through the door - Harold had been expecting footsteps hurrying past any second, but it didn’t come. As his curiosity became mirrored on John’s face, Root’s voice cut in. “They’ve stopped, but they’re close.”

“How many?” John asked, voice lowered more than his usual register.

“With no cover and Harry at your side, too many. Just stay put, I’ll update you if it changes.”

Harold realised, not for the first time of course, that his in-field presence was often a hindrance. For this number however, he was required in-field, not exactly to his liking or to John’s, but his expertise was needed just as much as John’s more aggressive tactics. He sometimes thought that if he were more like John, at least willing to wield a gun, then perhaps these sorts of situations were less likely to happen, however he also knew he would never wield a gun, and so the hypothetical was pointless to even consider. It didn’t stop him from time to time, but it was still pointless.

There was nothing to do but wait, he knew that, and as a patient man, Harold had no problem with such a thing, but for better or for worse, John’s trigger finger could get itchy. It wasn’t something that particularly concerned Harold, either in this circumstance or in general, and certainly never concerned him enough to make a point of it, but it was still something he knew about John, and so when he looked up at him and saw a level of discomfort on his face, it didn’t automatically alert Harold to anything wrong.

Three seconds later, Harold realised something was wrong. John’s eyes were still shut, and not in a manner that was calm, and his breathing was exaggerated, like it was a deliberate choice to lift his shoulders with each inhale and let them fall again every exhale.

“Mr Reese?” Harold asked, keeping his voice just in the audible range, which for them, when so close together, meant it was imperceivable beyond the closet dwelling. When John did not respond, he tried again. “Mr Reese, what’s wrong?”

John’s brow drew down and his jaw visibly tightened, as if fighting back the word. Eventually however, without opening his eyes, he did reply. “Claustrophobia.”

Harold did not know this about John, which in and of itself was enough of a surprise, considering quite how much he did know, and he was wholly unequipped to deal with such a thing. At least, that was Harold’s initial reaction, the initial panic of being unable to alleviate John’s growing distress, but then he thought maybe he could do something. He did not have claustrophobia himself, but he did understand fear and anxiety and trauma - though Harold didn’t know if his claustrophobia stemmed from trauma, knowing what John had been through in his time and knowing the CIA likely would’ve forced him to outgrow that fear before sending him out of his leash, it wouldn’t be impossible for that to be the case.

“John,” he said, keeping his voice flat and even, but warm. “Keep breathing, deep even breaths.” John hadn’t stopped that, at least hadn’t stopped trying, but Harold felt a reminder was in need. “You are alright.” It was difficult to know how John would respond to anything he did, whether it would have any affect or just worsen the situation further, which was the last thing he wanted to do, but he couldn’t stand there and do nothing. “Tell me what you need.”

“A distraction,” John managed, though he still hadn’t opened his eyes. “Something else to focus on.”

Harold understood that, and such a thing had been helpful for him - Bear had been a great support in that regard - but sensation was limited when in a closet, forced to be quiet in case you were found and shot. Audible sensation was ruled out almost instantly, and with John still not opening his eyes, so was sight. Smell and taste were hardly things Harold could influence even if he wanted to, and so touch was the only option.

As steady as he could make his hand, he raised it and rested it on John’s arm. There was a brief moment of stiffness in John, before his body slacked back to its previous state, tension still present as with the anxiety. There wasn’t much else for Harold to do but that, to rest his hand there, to continuously adjust his finger positions and pressure to keep the sensation changing, but that was all, and he felt a little helpless being unable to do much more.

"Keep breathing John, in and out." From his personal experience, John wasn't having an anxiety attack, or he was just very good at hiding it, a talent Harold didn't doubt John had, but he wanted to make sure it didn't get that far; forgetting to breath was common for him, and so perhaps it was common for John. 

Harold continued to shift his hand, it naturally, slowly, sliding down the length of John's arm. Perhaps it was sly of him, but when his hand reached John's wrist, he carefully slipped two fingers past the jacket and shirt cuff to press against his skin. John surely knew what he was doing, checking his pulse, but he gave no indication he even noticed, which only concerned Harold further. 

The following motion was simultaneously sudden and slow; John’s arm twisted and he shifted his hand up, fingers catching and pulling at Harold’s, and then Harold found his hand in John’s. He didn’t say anything nor did he tense, but he was surprised. The grip on his hand was not tight or constricting, but he could tell it was desperate, so he held on without comment. He let his thumb drag back and forth across John’s knuckles, keeping that shifting sensation, and drawing his other hand up to John’s arm to do the same.

Distantly, there were voices and footsteps and Harold focused in an attempt to catch a word, but they were too far away for that. And then the voices were gone and it was quiet again. “The coast is clear, boys,” came Roots' voice a few seconds later. “Time to get moving.”

And that was what they did. Harold’s hands fell back to his side, John composed himself, and they went back out into the corridor, pushing forward like they had been. Nothing more was said on the storage closet or on John’s claustrophobia or how his hand reached and latched to Harold. Nothing needed to be said. So they kept pushing forward, going from floor to floor, to find their number.


End file.
